


Remember Me

by sunaddicted



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Altered Mental States, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Burning Man, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, M/M, Mairon is not insane but nobody believes him, Melkor is pretty desperate, Self-Harm, psychiatric hospital, take it away from me, this thing has been sitting on my usb pen for an age
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-07
Updated: 2016-02-07
Packaged: 2018-05-18 21:59:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5944702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunaddicted/pseuds/sunaddicted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He was eleven when he realized it would never be okay: Mairon – the name of the ghost had popped in his mind out of the blue sometime around his fourth birthday – was a constant presence behind his closed eyelids and he missed the fiery and feisty creature with his whole soul. He was old enough to know that hearing voices in his head and interacting so deeply with a figment of his imagination wasn’t good and he kept it a secret, held it close to his chest and lied smoothly to Aulë when, one afternoon while sunbathing on the river banks, his brother had asked him whether his imaginary friend was still a vibrant presence in his life.<br/>And they started to drift apart – somehow it felt natural, like a deja-vu.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Remember Me

_Remember Me_

_i._

_Little Flame_

Mairon’s second coming to the world was way more shocking than his first creation; as gooey warmth congealed at the sudden cool breeze mouthing at his tiny and fragile body – a child, his mind suggested, the image of an elven spawn appearing on the back of his eyelids – he felt his lungs burn with pressure and lack of oxygen, painfully reminding him of that time he had drowned in Númenor.

When Eru had created him, he had been lulled by a gentle melody, pulled out of a swirling mass of buttery yellow light that made him want to smile even if he hadn’t had a proper body to do so. His birth had been calm and relaxed, no rushing for Eru when it came to the creation of his children.

He desperately tried to work the weak and unfamiliar muscles, which was difficult since in his past life he had never been a newborn: he had never found himself trapped in a useless and uncoordinated bundle of flesh and still malleable bones.A bloodcurdling scream pierced the air and the prickly scent of disinfectant and iron filled his mouth and unpleasantly slithered down his throat while he was quickly and efficiently cleaned from the thick goo covering him before being bundled in a blanket – part of him missed the more reassuring warmth of furs cocooning his naked limbs.

Trembling arms held him somewhat awkwardly, shaking with exhaustion and emotion. Mairon peered up at his mother and quietly studied her bland features, wondering about whether he would look as unordinary as she did with her mousy brown hair and yellowish skin that made her dull green eyes look sunken in. He hated her immediately and scrunched up his face in a frown to show his disgust. He hoped his father looked better: Mairon couldn’t bear living a life in which he wasn’t gorgeous.

Tiredly, Mairon snuggled deeper in the blanket and nodded off – a sad pout on his mouth as his hazy mind lamented the punishment that had been inflicted upon him, a million times worse than his long captivity behind the Door of Night that he had managed to spend with Melkor.

* * *

 

The first time Mairon set himself on fire, he was two: he believed that if he reminded his body how it felt becoming a dancing flame, it would be able to develop the ability to do so spontaneously – however, it seemed that human bodies weren’t meant to do something like that. He ended up in a foster family, ginger hair half-burned away from his scalp and his arms bandaged up to his shoulder blades, the skin itching and hurting even under the most tender of caresses; the authorities of that new world had deemed his parents responsible of child abuse and had been imprisoned, forever banned from seeing him – Mairon didn’t particularly care.

His new family was terrified of him: he was incredibly clever for his age – he talked and wrote in perfect English – and his behavior resembled more that of a prim and proper adult than that of a child, who should have spent his days throwing tantrums and playing around instead of reading thick books and singing haunting songs in a long-forgotten tongue; Black Speech flowed easily from his throat and the familiar harsh and shredding sounds made him feel still anchored to his past, to his friends, to his lover, to who he used to be.

A prodigy child, that was the word everyone used around him.

It wasn’t until he started asking for History textbooks describing Arda that his family sent him to an infancy psychiatrist, who declared he had created a completely fantastical world to protect himself from the harsh reality of his first, abusive household. At those words Mairon shook his head – he was four years old by then and his wavy hair had grown to his shoulders – and recounted his first life in great detail: from Melkor’s voice shaping a new and beautiful theme in the dawn of Arda to his apprenticeship in the forges under Aulë; painting in vivid colors the ghostly beauty of Angband , of its turrets and spikes, of its lavishly decorated chambers and its nightmarish dungeon; evocated from thin air the loving, sweaty and hot long hours spent moaning and thrashing in his lover’s strong arms; described battles, tortures, defeats and his anguish when everything crashed down on him – everything to prove Arda had existed, that he wasn’t imagining it.

He didn’t realize his mistake until it was too late: they carted him off to a psychiatric hospital, where he was locked into a disgustingly white room with padded walls and the pained, crazed cries of the other patients echoing the screams in Angband dungeons so beautifully, became his lullaby.

* * *

Ten-year old Mairon still survived in the hospital and started being medicated for dissociative identity disorder.

With the passing of the years his room had outgrown the impersonal look it had had at the beginning: somewhat creepy and vaguely gory sketches covered the walls and only the multitude of portraits of Melkor looked normal; a cello was lovingly displayed in a corner, music sheets haphazardly stacked on the floor in messy and unstable towers; a patchwork blanket he had made himself covered the standard white and starch linens and billowy curtains valiantly tried to block the light pooling in from the window – still, despite his efforts, Mairon hated it with a passion and his fingertips itched with the need to burn everything.

He always was wrapped into too big sweaters that did a nice job of hiding the pinkish scars on his arms and did nothing to flatter his figure: luckily, he looked the same as he did when he was the Lieutenant of Angband, only in a childlike way since human bodies developed so slowly. Mairon was always cold; it had nestled deep in his bones like a festering cancer and wouldn’t leave even if he passed his afternoons in front of the fireplace in the common room, wishing there weren’t bars to separate him from the flickering and beckoning flames.

Mairon sighed and curled up on the armchair in the psychiatrist’s studio, swallowing down his medications in front of the man who suspected he wasn’t taking them; he loathed those pills: they made him sluggish and slow, draining his energy until he resembled a lifeless puppet with glassy eyes “Good boy” he was praised and shrugged carelessly. As the doctor prattled on, he amused himself with picturing the most weird and disgusting way he could have killed him if he still had his powers: the idea of disemboweling him with his bare hands and eating the heart out of his chest was a favorite “…and the nurses tell me you don’t eat much, Mairon. Are trying to starve yourself?”

“No” he answered. He couldn’t admit that food didn’t taste as good as fried elven brain, could he? – not if he hoped to get out of that damned institution sometime in the future “The pills… my stomach closes off when I take them” Maybe he could persuade him to change his prescription to something lighter: he had acted like a good boy lately.

The doctor smiled “Oh, why didn’t you tell me sooner? I’ll change your drugs” He jotted down a remainder on his notepad with an elegant fountain pen – it seemed good for stabbing people in the eyes “Now, tell me: who am I talking to today?”

Mairon cringed at the question and hugged his knees to his chest, mentally cursing himself for revealing how many times he had changed names during his first life – it was the reason why he had been admitted to the psychiatric hospital with a personality disorder scrawled across his folder “Mairon”

“Which one?” the psychiatrist asked for clarification “The naïve young man living in Valinor or the Lieutenant of Angband?” he added, eyes twinkling with fascination and curiosity, studying him in that morbid way he still hadn’t gotten used to.

“They’re the same, as well as Annatar is”

“What about Sauron? Gorthaur? The Necromancer?” he listed, leaning more towards him as if it would help him to better understand his answer.

Mairon shivered and glared at the doctor “Sauron never existed: they called me that to cake me in mud, hoping to shadow my brilliance” he spat out, voice brimming with deadly venom: nobody dared to call him that to his face – the Elves who had dared to do so had died a painful and slow death “Gorthaur and the Necromancer aren’t personalities – just titles thrust upon me” He didn’t add that the Elves had particularly liked giving a ton of different names to the same thing or person, a part of his mind chanting all of Fëanor’s sons’ names. Without anyone to talk to who had lived in Arda, Mairon was deathly afraid of forgetting and letting himself being brainwashed into becoming human: it was the stuff of his nightmares along with never finding Melkor in that world, living his existence alone in a paddled room under the influence of medications he didn’t need to take.

* * *

At fifteen Mairon set himself on fire again and was hospitalized: finally, his chance to escape and disappear had come. After his burns had been tended to, he stuffed his pockets with painkillers and fled into the night, breathing in for the first time the scent of freedom.

Not even the bleak prospect of not having any qualification to find a proper job could shatter the relief worming its way in his soul; after all, it wouldn’t have been the first time he had prostituted himself to gain something: he had lain with Ar-Pharazôn only to brainwash the fool into helping him freeing Melkor from the Halls of Mandos and Celebrimbor had been a convenient fuck to infiltrate himself into people’s hearts and minds – he could do it again to make some money and buy himself food.

Swiftly, he disappeared into a filthy alley and never returned to the hospital.

 

_ii._

_Mighty Arising_

When Melkor looked at his twin brother, younger than him only because of a handful of minutes, he had the impression that there was more history between them than the two years they had lived on Earth; it was a vain thought that sometimes wafted throughout his mind but never stayed long enough to bother him too much.

On the contrary, a redheaded ghost kept hunting him and an inexplicable ache dwelled in his chest and thrummed at the tempo of his heartbeat; he found himself spending his childhood crying for someone he had never met, blue irises always looking around for a curtain of crimson curls and a godlike face that he instinctively knew had always looked adoring and rosy with love whenever in his presence – even if it didn’t made sense. Aulë was the only one in whom he had confided and he had looked distressed while listening to his feeling for the specter; he hugged him and told him that imaginary friends disappeared sooner or later and not to worry: everything would turn out okay in the end.

He was eleven when he realized it would never be okay: Mairon – the name of the ghost had popped in his mind out of the blue sometime around his fourth birthday – was a constant presence behind his closed eyelids and he missed the fiery and feisty creature with his whole soul. He was old enough to know that hearing voices in his head and interacting so deeply with a figment of his imagination wasn’t good and he kept it a secret, held it close to his chest and lied smoothly to Aulë when, one afternoon while sunbathing on the river banks, his brother had asked him whether his imaginary friend was still a vibrant presence in his life.

And they started to drift apart – somehow it felt natural, like a deja-vu.

* * *

 

Melkor was a bully who had beaten up half of the school and had the other half frightened to death – professors included; what made his family and teachers so angry with him was the fact that Melkor was clever: he always ranked to first place when it came to grades and would probably have a bright future – if he stopped behaving as if everyone had wronged him in some way or another and deserved punishment.

The truth was: nobody mattered enough to Melkor.

Nobody would ever compare to Mairon.

* * *

Melkor staggered into dark alley, everything blurring in front of him as he chugged down the last of a vodka bottle and felt the alcohol burn through his veins, adding elated delirium up to his already drugged brain that made his nerve endings twitch as if electrocuted.

He didn’t feel the biting cold even as the falling snow melted over his overheated and bare arms; he didn’t feel the pain of his palms splitting open as he fell down on the frozen and filthy pavement; he didn’t feel the tears leaking from his wide open eyes; he didn’t feel the anguished and pained sobs scraping against his throat to force their way out of his mouth.

He could only observe as a figure emerged from the kaleidoscope of dully colored hurricane that his vision had become; the stranger approaching him was scantly and provocatively dressed despite the season, their skin as white as the snow falling around them was almost blinding in the thick darkness of the alley and their shock of crimson hair burned like a flame in the still air. Melkor blinked desperately, trying to clear his eyes from the drugged haze and tears covering them and imposed his brain to keep his heart from excitedly beating out of his chest, miserably failing at it.

_Mairon_ – a ghostly whisper.

Mairon – his mental voice blabbered.

“Mairon” he whispered, half-choking on his own voice.

The stranger's face cleared and a beautiful smile split open those thin lips he so clearly remembered ravishing “Melkor”

 

_iii._

_Embraced_

When Melkor opened his eyes, the first thing his brain registered wasn’t the terrible headache torturing his brain cells: it was a perfectly chiseled face, framed by blood-red untamed curls, smiling down at him “Did I abuse too many substances yesterday and finally died?” he asked.

Mairon scowled, but the smile still was etched on his lips “No, you moron: you’re still alive and kicking” he reassured him and bent down to drop a kiss on his forehead “I’m so glad you happened on my path” A relieved sigh left his mouth and his scorching hot breath caressed his lover’s pale skin.

Tentatively, Melkor reached up with a hand and caressed Mairon’s curls, testing their silky textures on his fingertips – once, when his hands had been charred by the Silmarils, he had lost the ability to really enjoy touching Mairon’s hair with his insensitive digits “Little Flame” The nickname easily rolled down his tongue and he reveled in being finally able to call someone real in such a way “Beloved”

Mairon’s thin frame – even thinner than what it used to be – trembled and a whimper resonated through his ribcage “Mel.. Mel, I missed you so much” he whispered “They told me I was mad, locked me up in a fucking psychiatric hospital”

At those words, Melkor’s strong arms curled around the other and cuddled him against his chest while he tucked a cover around his sharp frame and tenderly rubbed the scarred arms “Shh, I’m here now” he shushed him and kissed his mouth, swiping his tongue against a slightly chapped and dry bottom lip “What were you doing in that alley?”

“I’m a prostitute” Mairon shrugged and snuggled deeper in the comforting warmth of Melkor’s hug “I need something to do if I want to eat” he added, attempting at softening the blow the news would surely give Melkor.

Melkor tightened his grip while he tried to keep his rage in check: in their world Mairon wouldn’t have needed to sell his body for something so base as food since Ainur didn’t really have to feed themselves; of course he knew Mairon had fucked some lowly Elves to smooth his way and had even approved of his cunning, having some pretty good laughs behind Celebrimbor’s back – the Void had trembled with the strength of his laughter as he contemplated how much of a fool Tyelpe had been in confiding in Annatar, so obviously deranged and selfish “I’m so sorry, love”

“You know I don’t care about the sex” Only making love – rough or tender, it didn’t matter – Mairon had ever been able to feel that activity as something more than a chore or a weapon.

“Still” Melkor sighed and nuzzled the top of Mairon’s hair “You deserve so much more”

“I don’t need more if I have you”

**Author's Note:**

> I hate this fic - especially Melkor's POV (I knew there was a reason why I had never attempted it)


End file.
